


Two Minutes' Silence

by Lexigent



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Remembrance, Remembrance Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-23
Updated: 2010-11-23
Packaged: 2017-10-13 08:22:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/135169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lexigent/pseuds/Lexigent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson remembers - the good, the bad and the ugly. Written for Remembrance Day. Comments are love!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Minutes' Silence

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my betas, icedmaple and alltoseek.

John is standing in a crowd of people, overlooking a sea of berets and poppies.  
He always feels that Remembrance Sunday should be rainy, or at least overcast and sombre, to match his general mood at this time of year. But today it’s dry and surprisingly mild for a November day. That’s good, he thinks. He has recently noticed that his shoulder plays up when it gets too cold.  
He closes his eyes as the bell strikes eleven.

 _He wakes up to a burning pain in his left shoulder. He may be hazy from the painkillers, but he knows enough about firearms and the human body to be able to tell that something is shattered beyond repair.  
“Captain Watson, the damage caused when the bullet passed through the nerve tissue is too severe for you to remain on active duty. As soon as you’re fit to travel, you’re going home.”  
He swallows.  
“For good.”  
When Doctor Watson arrives in London, Captain Watson doesn’t exist any more. His friend Bill tells him he was lucky. John’s not so sure._

But he was lucky, he thinks now. He straightens and his left hand finds his right behind his back. He was lucky to only get wounded and not killed. Lucky to run into Mike on that auspicious day in January, a chance encounter that led to meeting Sherlock, which in turn led to... well, everything he has now.  
Not everyone is as lucky as this.

 _They had lost him on John’s first tour of duty. To the public, if they even cared, he was just another casualty. To his regiment, he was a comrade. To some of them, he was the reason they were still alive. To John, he was a friend from childhood days. They had lost touch when John started university, but later found themselves reunited by the Army.  
Rifleman Steven Taylor had been in Afghanistan for two months. He had been clearing the ground ahead of him when an IED had detonated in his face.  
There was not much left to bury._

Joining the Army, for him, was never about killing people. He was a doctor before he became a soldier. It was about making a difference, saving lives, protecting people. The medals on the front of his jacket tell of all the times he’s been successful in that endeavour. His memories are a different matter entirely.

 _There’s blood and torn pieces of clothing all over the place, there are screams of pain and barked orders and he and his team are tending to wounds like there is no tomorrow. Some of their unit were ambushed earlier and now here he is, literally picking up the pieces and putting them back together. Right now, there are no names, no faces, just injuries of varying severity, and everyone on the medical team is doing as good a job as they can. But even through his professional detachment, he knows that at least one of these soldiers is beyond saving.  
He looks into the face of the soldier - the boy, he can’t be more than twenty - and holds his hand, murmurs words that he hopes will be comforting.  
The words “died from his wounds” never get any easier._

Sad as this service is, there is also an eerie beauty about the last of the autumn sun, the multicoloured leaves, the poppies, the fact that people have come together for this. He was willing to lay down his life when he went to Afghanistan, because the cause was worth it. For the same reason, he was willing, a few months ago, to lay down his life for a man he barely even knew; and he still is. Sherlock called him “quaint” once for being prepared to die for Queen and country, but John likes to believe that the events of the past months have changed his friend’s view on the subject.

 _The familiar feeling of the weight of his gun in his hand, the cool metal, the ridges on the handle beneath his fingertips, and then against the small of his back as he shoves it into his belt and straightens up before heading downstairs again._ Could be dangerous? _Like that’s ever stopped Captain Watson._

The bell strikes again to mark the end of the silence.


End file.
